JB: Yeah, Caché is a terrific example of Haneke engaging with difficult issues without allowing his film to feel overly academic. The references to the 1961 massacre are overt, but the film doesn’t require the audience to know anything about that event, or even to care, in order to feel challenged by Georges’ very personal story (of course, knowing about the 1961 massacre certainly deepens the significance of Georges’ story). Similarly, Haneke borrows elements from his previous films but employs them with a lighter touch. For example, the videotape scenes remind of Code Unknown in that we can’t immediately tell if the event is happening “live” or is the playback of a recording, but the scenes don’t seem to be so much “about” that audience manipulation; the sloppy execution of a chicken is still difficult to watch, but at least Haneke doesn’t replay it three more times as in Benny’s Video; Majid’s death is gruesome and shocking, but Haneke doesn’t linger with the carnage to the degree that he does in The Seventh Continent or Funny Games or several of his other films; and so on.
The first time around, Caché is effective as a rather straightforward mystery—one in which we can tell that the de facto detective, Georges, is withholding information while still aligning with his quest to understand what’s going on. Over subsequent viewings, the intrigue of the investigation erodes a bit because it becomes clear that Caché is one of those mysteries that relies too much on characters avoiding obvious questions. (For example, when Majid claims to have no knowledge of the videos or threatening cartoon drawings, Georges manages to avoid doing what I think anyone would do in that situation: ask Majid to come up with at least one scenario in which anyone else could be responsible.) But that only allows the character study to become all the more apparent. As you already indicated, Caché is—especially in terms of Georges’ personal story—about guilt and denial of responsibility. But if I could combine those two and reshape them just a bit, I think Caché is about the everlasting power of moral truth. Georges has spent his life trying to forget his mistreatment of Majid, and when he can’t do that he finds ways to justify it. And the thing of it is, his justifications aren’t entirely bullshit: Georges was just an insecure young boy when he concocted stories about Majid that caused this relative stranger, who was intruding on Georges’ sense of security, to be exiled from a family that he technically never belonged to. In the big picture, Georges’ misbehavior is easy to forgive—in fact, within Haneke’s world of gruesome violence it’s hardly worth noting. But what Caché suggests is that Georges feels the act is unforgivable, that even at that young age he violated his own morals, and thus he can never free himself from his own, private shame.
EH: It’s a private shame that threatens to become public, dragged out into the light of day. Light and dark are again used as symbolic opposites, but whereas in Time of the Wolf this rubric embodied the opposition of hope and despair, here Haneke opposes the darkness of what’s private and hidden (which is what Caché means) to the light that exposes the truth. After Majid’s suicide, Georges goes to the movies, hiding in the darkness of the theater, then returns home to his darkened house, hiding in his bedroom, refusing to let his wife turn the lights on. He finally tells her the full story in this scene, but in a sense he’s still hiding in the shadows, unwilling to have the light of conscience shined on his actions, unwilling to truly take responsibility. In the next scene, at Georges’ office, everything is bright and white, with the sunlight pouring in through large glass windows, everything open and illuminated. Here he can’t hide, can’t duck the responsibility, and when Majid’s son (Walid Afkir) confronts Georges there’s a threat that his secrets will be exposed. Georges says he doesn’t care, that he has nothing to hide, but although you’re right that Georges’ boyhood crimes are forgivable, especially since he was just a kid, and kids often act horribly, he’s still embarrassed and frightened, nervous that his actions will become known and judged. As much as he denies feeling any sense of responsibility, he is clearly ashamed of this whole affair and his part in it.
Haneke is exploring the ways in which the sins of the past continue to haunt and corrupt the present, both at the personal level and at the institutional level. Georges’ life falls apart, really, because he has never properly dealt with what he did as a kid, so he can’t move on from it, can’t escape it. He is simultaneously wracked by guilt and locked into denial, unable to accept his responsibility for the trajectory of Majid’s life and yet unable to overcome the feelings of shame and guilt that are obviously affecting him. For Haneke, the worst sin is forgetting. Georges and his mother forgetting about Majid is an obvious metaphor for the French forgetting about the ignominious history of their country’s treatment of Algeria, while the connections of that tragedy to the larger history of Europe generalize the issue beyond specifically French failings. (One interesting footnote is the fact that Maurice Pepon, the police chief who ordered the 1961 Paris massacre, was also a prominent Vichy official responsible for deporting Jews from France during World War II.) Just as the videos force Georges to remember, to consider his actions and their effect, Haneke’s film is intended as an uncomfortable reminder of past atrocities that many would like to forget.
JB: That’s certainly the way Haneke intends it. But to some degree I think he outsmarts himself. Although the mystery design of Caché keeps the film from feeling overly didactic, it also inspires questions that Haneke has no interest in answering. Haneke would say that’s because he’s focused on deeper things; in fact, he has said that. In a 2010 interview with Salon’s Andrew O’Hehir, Haneke summarized his approach to Caché perfectly: “The question of who sent the videotapes isn’t important at all. What’s important is the sense of guilt felt by the character played by Daniel Auteuil [Georges] in the film. But these superficial questions are the glue that holds the spectator in place, and they allow me to raise underlying questions that they have to grapple with. It’s relatively unimportant who sent the tapes, but by engaging with that the viewer must engage questions that are far less banal.” While I agree with that last sentence, I think Haneke goes too far in discounting the mystery as “superficial.” Because while Haneke is primarily interested in Georges’ guilt and denial, he needs to recognize that he’s also raising some interesting questions about emotional terrorism and retribution. I don’t think it’s insignificant to wonder: Who finds Georges’ relatively minor childhood crimes so unforgivable that they think he deserves to suffer for them so many years later? And is the motive purely related to Georges’ past sins, or does it have more to do with his current celebrity, or perhaps something else altogether?
All of that leads us to Caché’s famous final shot, which shows kids talking and milling about on some stairs outside of a school. Just under two minutes in length (before the closing credits start to roll), the anchored composition seems to show nothing in particular, except that to the careful observer it shows quite a bit: from the lower right corner of the screen, Majid’s son walks up the stairs to the top left corner of the shot where Georges’ son Pierrot (Lester Makedonsky) is standing, talking with some other boys. Majid’s son (Walid Afkir) seems to ask Pierrot to talk with him privately, and so they walk down the steps to the lower left corner of the shot, chat a while, and then go their separate ways. We hear none of their conversation, and, in fact, because Haneke keeps moving the boys around the frame and away from action that’s likely to attract our attention, some people watch all or much of the shot without even noticing or recognizing the boys. But it’s clear that the boys know each other and that their relationship seems friendly enough (Majid’s son smiles several times and Pierrot appears comfortable with him). What isn’t clear is how they know one another, how long they’ve known one another and what they know about one another. Because some of the secretly-shot videotape footage was taken from inside Majid’s home, we have to conclude that either Majid or Majid’s son (or both) was involved in sending Georges the tapes and drawings. Pierrot may have been an accomplice, but maybe not; it’s possible he has no idea that Majid’s son and his father are in any way linked.
This scene has been analyzed and written about by several critics (including Roger Ebert), and while some of that analysis is simply a fun cinematic exercise—following an evidence trail to see if it leads anywhere—I think there’s more to this mystery than closure. That is, I don’t think our desire to know if Georges’ son is terrorizing his father is just an empty question borne of mystery novels and Scooby Doo cartoons where the truth always comes out in the end. Caché is plenty challenging by its actual design, and I hate to be greedy by asking a very good film to give me even more to grapple with, but do I think Haneke loses something, or at least misses an opportunity, by discounting the motives of the crimes as superficial.
EH: I see your point, but I don’t really agree. The mystery in Caché is deliberately ambiguous and all but unsolvable, the many attempts to solve it by various critics and viewers notwithstanding. Furthermore, I’d say that it’s not because it’s entirely irrelevant that Haneke leaves the mystery unresolved, no matter what he claims, but because leaving it unsolved is itself essential to the film’s ideas. To solve the mystery, to tie it back to a specific person or persons who sent these videotapes—some combination of Pierrot, Majid and/or Majid’s son is the most likely solution—would be to imply, contrary to the film’s themes, that this is primarily a personal vendetta, that Georges’ guilt and its resonance with real-world atrocities could be understood in terms of revenge and punishment. That’s not what Haneke is after here at all.
In fact, the most compelling theory about the film’s mystery that I’ve heard is that Haneke is the one who sent the tapes, a theory that, personally, I’d interpret metaphorically rather than literally. What’s most interesting to me about Caché is how often Haneke destabilizes audience expectations by shooting scenes in ways that suggest a hidden camera, so that there’s always this uncertainty about what’s being taped and what’s not. The first time Georges goes to see Majid, their argument is filmed from the kind of distant, static vantage point that’s associated with the videotapes, and indeed it’s soon revealed that this conversation has been taped, although in this case we seem to be seeing the conversation live rather than on tape. That alone is interesting, because earlier in the film when we’d seen the scenes on the videos, we were watching them with Georges (he even rewinds and fast-forwards), whereas in this scene we’re watching from the point-of-view of the hidden camera itself rather than the point-of-view of Georges playing back the videos. When Georges returns to Majid’s apartment to witness Majid’s suicide, the scene is again filmed from a similar vantage point, albeit this time so head-on that it’s hard to imagine how any camera shooting this scene could be hidden.
This ambiguity extends into the scene, late in the film, that shows Majid as a boy being dragged, kicking and screaming, away from Georges’ family’s farm. This scene also evokes the style and perspective of the videotapes, though of course it would have been all but impossible for there to be a camera there. Instead, this must be another of Georges’ dreams or memories of his childhood, although even there there’s some uncertainty, since the rest of Georges’ memories of Majid as a child turn out to be twisted false memories that reflect the lies he’d told about the boy (that Majid was bleeding from his mouth, that he advanced threateningly on Georges with an axe) rather than the reality. In all these ways, not only does the film not explain who was sending the tapes, it consistently calls into question what’s being filmed and why, conflating unmediated reality with both video records and memories. But whereas memories can lie—and Haneke shows us several memories from Georges’ perspective that are eventually revealed as false—videotapes have an accusing objectivity that’s hard to avoid. It doesn’t really matter where these tapes come from; just that they exist, stirring up all this complicated history.
JB: Don’t get me wrong, these tapes are far more important as a tool to explore Georges than as a gimmick of a whodunit. I don’t disagree with that at all. And yet, if we take that angle of approach and decide that it doesn’t matter where the tapes come from, then we must also agree that Caché’s famous final scene doesn’t matter either. Because that scene isn’t about Georges’ shame or guilt. It isn’t about ignoring one’s past. It tells us nothing about denial. All that scene does is deepen the mystery—and, unlike previous scenes, we can’t argue that the scene with Pierrot and Majid’s son serves as some kind of narrative bridge between deeper “underlying questions,” because as the last scene in the movie there’s nothing for it to bridge to. And, look, that’s fine. Again, one of the things I enjoy about Caché is how neatly Haneke weaves his probing examinations of human behavior into a whodunit. His films needn’t be one or the other. But at the same time, if Haneke wants the audience to walk away thinking about Georges’ behavior and not the mystery of the terrorism inflicted on Georges, he ends his film with the wrong scene. Better to have flashed back to that view from Georges’ childhood home and the memory of Majid being dragged away, kicking and screaming.
Before we move on to Haneke’s most recent film, The White Ribbon, I want to note something else about that final scene: Without critical assistance, it’s in danger of being overlooked. When I saw Caché for the first time, on the big screen, I didn’t notice Pierrot and Majid’s son until just before they started wandering down the steps together. And over the next 30 seconds or so, I heard members of the audience gasp as they noticed the boys talking for the first time. As I noted earlier, with so much action going on in the frame, away from the boys, they’re easy to miss. And I think more and more people are going to miss them when they see the movie for the first time on a smaller home-theater screen. Seeing this movie for the second time in preparation for this conversation, I remembered that the boys talk to one another during the scene, but I couldn’t remember where on the screen they were. And watching from the comfort of my couch, looking toward my 42-inch TV just a few feet away, I’m not kidding: I couldn’t find them. When I backed up the scene and watched it again, I spotted them, and I realized that previously I’d managed to keep examining the spaces that the boys had just left. It was bad luck. Nonetheless, I knew there was something worth looking for, and my experience was evidence that even an attentive viewer could easily overlook what happens in that scene. In recounting this story, I’m not disparaging Caché. Rather I’m offering this up as a general reminder: sometimes we don’t all see the same movie.
EH: I don’t believe that the final scene is only relevant to the whodunit mystery aspect of Caché. Sure, Pierrot and Majid’s son meeting like that raises all sorts of speculation, but as with the question of who sent the tapes, why these two young men are talking and what they’re saying is less important than the very fact that they’re talking. For me, that last shot is an expression of the elusive hopefulness we’ve sometimes noted in Haneke’s work. If the bulk of Caché is about the unresolved guilt of Georges and his generation, that final shot suggests the possibility of change for future generations. At the root of much of the suffering in this film, as in Haneke’s work in general, is a lack of communication. Georges’ inability to talk honestly and openly about what happened in his boyhood, either with his wife or with Majid himself, strains his relationship with his family and leads to the tragedy of Majid’s suicide.
While Majid kills himself and Georges gets swallowed up by his guilt, in the final shot the two men’s sons meet and, though their relationship is ambiguous and we have no way of knowing what they’re saying to one another, it’s obvious that some kind of communication is occurring here. In my opinion, the final shot of Caché is similar to the light-in-the-darkness ending of Time of the Wolf: ambiguous, bittersweet, leaving the future very much uncertain, but allowing in that sliver of hope that the cycle won’t be repeated, that things will change. Pierrot and Majid’s son, whatever they’re saying, seem relaxed and friendly with one another in a way that suggests they’ve moved beyond the divisions of the past, that they can talk comfortably. Thus, this scene isn’t a bridge between the narrative and the subtext; it’s a bridge to the future, its meaning uncertain and ambiguous but containing at least a possibility that this generation won’t repeat the mistakes of their fathers.
Of course, Haneke never wants to make things that easy or that tidy, which is why the scene is so ambiguous—I admit that my reading of it is only one possibility, and doesn’t necessarily preclude some more pessimistic interpretations—and why Haneke makes it so easy for even attentive viewers to miss the implications of the scene altogether. The meeting is there to be seen or not, and the same goes for the feeling of hope that might be embodied by this unheard conversation. I think this too is part of Haneke’s point: while suffering is omnipresent in his world, hope is rarer and more elusive, only to be found by those who really go looking for it.
JB: I must say, I never considered such a hopeful conclusion to this film. Building off Time of the Wolf, it’s not without precedent. But given that bleakness and aggression are more in line with Haneke’s default setting, I find it much more convincing to conclude that there’s something sinister in the relationship between Pierrot and Majid’s son, even if it’s only known by one of them—that is, even if Majid’s son is simply using Pierrot in some way. After all, Haneke has never been shy about associating evil and youth. He does it in Caché with Georges’ story at least (and maybe also with Pierrot and/or Majid’s son). He does it in Benny’s Video and Funny Games. And he at least nods that way in The White Ribbon.
His most recent release, The White Ribbon is at once a departure for Haneke and a summation of his career. It’s his only period piece, set in a small German village in the years before World War I. It’s his only black-and-white film, full of gorgeous compositions by Christian Berger, his cinematographer for Caché, The Piano Teacher and Benny’s Video. It’s his only film with a narrator, allowing a schoolteacher (Christian Friedel, with Ernst Jacobi providing the voiceover) to take us through the events retrospectively but without much benefit of hindsight. And it’s his longest film by almost 30 minutes. But the film throbs with evil, some of it perhaps inflicted by children, some of it most certainly inflicted by adults, all of it unmistakable and yet somehow indistinct, which makes it quintessential Haneke.
As in Caché, The White Ribbon is full of mysteries that Haneke has no desire to solve, but I wonder if you agree with me that the mysteries are even more ambiguous in this film. Sometimes it’s difficult to even figure out what’s a mystery and what only feels like a mystery because of connections that we humans tend to make—sometimes falsely—as we grapple with all that we can’t explain. Ebert put it nicely in his review, which I think might be one of his strongest of the past several years: “[Haneke’s] films are like parables, teaching us that bad things happen simply because they…happen. The universe laughs at man’s laws and does what it wants.” To me, that’s what The White Ribbon is about—about all that we can’t control, and about our desperate attempts to prove otherwise.